


Disarm

by 13thDoctor



Series: Angels in America [1]
Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Angels, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Demons, Episode Related, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Genesis origin, Heaven vs Hell, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content, angel dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7600468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, in the midst of the war between Heaven and Hell, the demon DeBlanc and the angel Fiore are drawn to one another. The consequences are unforeseen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disarm

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely no comic knowledge, so this is my creation based on the episodes alone. Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Thank you, and enjoy!

The war between Heaven and Hell was fought, quite practically, in a purgatory directly in the middle of the two. Lost souls were generally deposited there for safe-keeping as they awaited judgement and sentencing, but those had been relegated to another area for the time being. The angels didn’t want the innocents caught in the bloody havoc wreaked upon the land, and the demons couldn’t care less, so an agreement was made. Soon after, thousands of warriors descended upon the land, conjuring a chaos unlike any other.

 

The endless war between Heaven and Hell was fought in the dark, cloudy, open field of this purgatory. The ground had been stained deep scarlet for years. The sky above was full of dust and any possibility of sunlight was obscured by giant wings, as well as the giant weapons yielded by the winged beings. Screams, some of anguish and others of victory, ripped through the air while swords ripped through bodies. The clang of metal, the squelch of boots stepping through flesh and mud, the electronic vibration of an angel or demon reviving. It was the music of the damned.

 

Although a demon, DeBlanc was inclined to be truthful--and was often ridiculed for this during his many days in Hell, to his chagrin. He could lie well, of course (most demons could), but, for some inexplicable reason, preferred the truth. So truth be told, this war was beginning to grind his nerves. It wasn’t that he minded violence, but this unprecedented gore and this unending battle made him want to lay down and sleep for eternity.

 

He opened his mouth to speak to the demon next to him-- _ I could use a drink; know where they keep the wine? _ \--and was instead interrupted by a swift shot through his temple. The bullet exited in less than a second in a spray of tissue and fluids and he collapsed to the ground, his brow furrowed in utmost frustration. And god damn, that one had  _ hurt. _

 

Accustomed to reinvigorating in the same spot for some time now, the demon was surprised when his blue flash of light brought him to a small cliff on the edge of all the mayhem--not that there were any places where fighting didn’t occur, but it tended to happen more inward--where only a few angels and demons held skirmishes. They still fought just as viciously, and DeBlanc had to sidestep or engage every five feet or so. He defeated them as a human managed pests, with minimal effort and a grimace on his face the entire time. Honestly, he just wanted a brief respite, and this was draining his patience.

 

The cliffs were dark like the rest of the soil, whether from blood or natural coloring it was unknown. He trudged wearily over them, kicking rocks and faces until he was so far on the outskirts that his only companion was the hot breeze. In black leather pants and a black leather jacket, that temperature was both unwelcome and unbearable. But demons had never been that practical.

 

“Take  _ that! _ ” an accented voice yelled, with the gusto and exaggerated heroism of a comic book character. DeBlanc hadn’t really read any, but he had met some writers, and knew the intricacies better than most.

He heard the tell-tale sounds of a sword beheading someone and took that as his cue to walk in the other direction. This was truly exhausting.

“Hey! Hey, you!”

Deblanc walked a little faster and gripped the knives in his belt a little tighter. A metal tip belonging to Comic Book’s sword pressed neatly into the nape of his neck, just above the material of his shirt. It was so sharp that that barest press alone drew blood. DeBlanc sighed. “Runnin’ off?” the man asked. He let up enough that DeBlanc could turn around and face him.

The first thought DeBlanc had was  _ tall.  _ Comic Book had about six inches on him and--second thought,  _ handsome _ \--was using that frame to his advantage, albeit likely unknowingly. He wore all white, loose pants and a loose tee, no shoes, but the purity of the outfit was ruined with the splattered blood stains. The scratches on his face, combined with the rather manic look in his eyes, could almost scare DeBlanc. But he was a demon, and he was done with being bothered with this whole ordeal, so he took a pistol out of his pocket, shot Comic Book in the head, and went on his merry way.

He was humming when Comic Book found him again, picking his way to a little cave he saw in the distance when there was a loud  _ swoosh  _ and he felt his body split in half at the waist. Comic Book smiled pleasantly at the carnage, nudged it with his foot. DeBlanc watched from a couple feet away with a curious mix of admiration, anger, and amity all convening in one tight smirk. And when he sliced Comic Book’s throat from behind, it was with both satisfaction and regret.

Checking over his shoulder to make sure the angel hadn’t yet re-appeared, DeBlanc hiked the rest of the distance to his little rocky paradise. At its yawning, black entrance, he could feel cool air and hear the slow drip of water.

“ _ Where _ are you  _ going? _ ” Comic Book asked brusquely.

With a heavy exhale, DeBlanc turned and threw his arms up in frustration. “Out, okay! Just  _ out _ for a bit. Shouldn’t that make you happy, one less demon to fight?”

Comic Book made a vague noise of protest, more of a squeak than anything else, and regarded the demon with a tilted head and wide eyes. DeBlanc thought he was very odd looking, all angles but also softness, with big eyes and thin lips. DeBlanc also thought he was devastatingly handsome, but that wasn’t something a demon went around announcing to an angel, especially in the middle of war where they should all feel only unwavering loathing for one another.

 

Comic Book tugged at his ear once and looked at the ground. DeBlanc wondered how he could drop his guard so easily around the enemy until he realized he too was openly relaxed. Caught unaware, he straightened his back and shuffled, using his broad shoulders to try to match the imposing height of this annoyingly charming angel.

“Um.” Comic Book spoke haltingly, as if he was perpetually unsure he could actually make noise with his mouth. “Would you mind company?” He gestured lamely to himself like the implication had been unclear.

DeBlanc started and then answered, probably a little too fast, “Not at all.” If Comic Book noticed, he didn’t show it. He hesitantly stepped closer to DeBlanc until they were both staring down the cave’s round, welcome opening. Each man peered around the cliffs, racked with guilt as they scrutinized the land for any prying angels and demons.

They looked at each other. They looked away. DeBlanc coughed and Comic Book pinched his ear again. “Together?” DeBlanc suggested gently after he became too uncomfortable. Comic Book breathed out gratefully and nodded jerkily. Thus they descended, footsteps echoing in the cavern, shadows crossing and then being swallowed whole by the rocks, together.

Time passed in silence. DeBlanc wasn’t sure how long they had been walking--immortals weren’t the greatest with time; often hours felt like minutes and minutes felt like hours--before they came across another opening. One look became their tacit communication and they veered off the path to explore the hollow.

It was a dead end, a room with four walls of stone and a ceiling of stalactites and a floor of flat, grey rock. Aquatic erosion had worn the walls so thoroughly that benches seemed to be carved in them, and smooth dips made strange beds. DeBlanc caught his companion’s eye and smiled before he could help it. Comic Book seemed to share his sentiment, however. He was grinning and speaking gleefully about “the Batcave” (DeBlanc tried to pay attention to the words, but the shape of the man’s lips was far more enticing).

“This will do,” he announced, and sank to the ground without further ado. The cool stone felt amazing on his bare arms. He patted the space next to him, inviting his angel to lie beside him. Even with closed eyes, he knew the other man was waging an internal conflict, disputing the righteousness of becoming amicable with a filthy demon.

 

DeBlanc did not hide the triumphant smile on his face when he felt a long, lean body settle gracelessly to his left. Shoulders shifted, fabric rustled. Not many other sounds were made until DeBlanc’s knee touched Comic Book, and the angel jerked away as if burned. Not without a twinge of pain, DeBlanc sat up and began apologizing profusely. As he rambled on, Comic Book’s face transformed from scared to quizzical.

The demon finally noticed this new expression. “Quite sor-- what?”

“Never heard a demon apologize, thas’ all,” he offered innocently. 

“Too busy chopping them in half, I’d imagine.”

Comic Book nodded as if that was a perfectly logical explanation and then offered his hand. “I’m Fiore,” he said. DeBlanc liked the way he emphasized the first syllable.

“DeBlanc.” They shook hands (the angel’s were warm, the demon’s were cold). “I’ve not seen you around before.”

Fiore blinked. He shifted to sit cross-legged and face DeBlanc and then hung his head shamefully. “I mostly keep away from the fighting,” he mumbled.

DeBlanc knit his brow in surprise. “Really? From what I saw, you’re very good.” It was an understatement for sure, but he couldn’t muster much else when Fiore’s shirt was riding up a bit at his hips.

“I don’ like… getting hurt. I don’ like pain.” He admitted it carefully, softly, but with the weight of a thousand worlds. DeBlanc registered that it must have been the first time he ever shared the secret with anyone else.

Touched to be privy such private information, DeBlanc felt compelled to supply his own, if only to make Fiore feel less exposed. “I don’t much care for inflicting pain. Nasty job, really. I only do it ‘cause--”

“You have to,” Fiore finished for him, a bitterness in his tone that had previously not existed. “Or you’re not worth anythin’ to them.” DeBlanc liked the way his  _ th _ s sounded like  _ f _ s.

“But, you’re an  _ angel!”  _ DeBlanc exclaimed. Fiore rolled his eyes pursed his lips while staring at him impatiently, so he continued. “Aren’t they fond of happiness and mercy?” Two rather foreign concepts to a demon.

Fiore shrugged. “I’m very good,” he repeated, monotone.

 

“If you just  _ asked-- _ ”

“No!” Fiore shouted. It was a rather unexpected display of emotion, loud and impassioned, and it made DeBlanc jump. Fiore wrung his hands together (DeBlanc quelled the urge to lace their fingers together, make that nervous habit disappear) and shook his head. “No, they needed me. Can’t refuse the Almighty himself, can you? So off I went, and there I was, and now here I am, talking to a bloody demon in a cave.”

“You don’t have to,” DeBlanc retorted dejectedly. Meanly.

Fiore still wouldn’t look up. DeBlanc thought the ground couldn’t be that interesting, but maybe to a man who spent his days walking on clouds, it was. With an inhale that must have drawn the air from the entire cave, Fiore finally whispered, “I want to.”

The statement felt illicit, almost. DeBlanc’s whole body tingled with the electricity of it. He wondered if Fiore was as drawn to him as he was to Fiore. Everything about the angel made him burn all over like he hadn’t in a long time.

“Well,” Fiore interrupted his thoughts abruptly. “I’m going to sleep.” Thought angels and demons didn’t need such a luxury, the promise of emptiness and peace was alluring to a majority of them, and they could drift off if determined enough.

DeBlanc smiled fondly and slipped back onto his back. “A wonderful plan, my dear.” 

Fiore jumped again and DeBlanc grinned again and the water dripped again. And they drifted off to sleep side by side, a secret, impossible pair, breathing still in the night.

…

Hours later, the angel and demon woke together, breathing hard in the darkness. They rolled to their sides at the same time and stared at each other, fear and uncertainty and helplessness clear in their features. A fire roared inside DeBlanc, unquenchable, he reasoned, unless he gave it what it wanted. 

Hand shaking, lungs laboring, and lips shaking, he reached out to Fiore. Fiore followed the movement of his hand with blown pupils and pale skin. When the demon touched his cheek, the angel flinched. But DeBlanc persisted gently, fingers clutching at the back of Fiore’s neck.

“Are you feeling this?” DeBlanc asked quietly, staring straight ahead.

 

Fiore gulped. He nodded so subtly that it could have been a nervous mistake, but DeBlanc decided it wasn’t. It couldn’t be, not when he was speeding forward and bringing Fiore to him and their mouths were meeting with the intensity of colliding trains (Fiore would know; he’d stood between two locomotives as they crashed headfirst into each other once, a legitimate accident, but this kiss was far from accidental). Fiore tasted like the sun where he probably tasted like ice, and that stinging juxtaposition made it that much better.

Fiore whined and grabbed DeBlanc’s collar roughly. The demon thought he would be tossed away then, that he had misinterpreted everything, but the action only served to deepen their embrace. Even at the awkward angle of them twisting together and balancing on their elbows, the kiss was languid and loving. Eventually DeBlanc had the sense to move them--he couldn't be blamed for the momentary lapse in intelligence, not when his brain was so overloaded--and straddled Fiore, hardly ever breaking the kiss. He chased his tongue with his own like humans chased a line of cocaine, with a dangerous need and the ubiquitous knowledge that it could only end in tragedy.

“We can’t,” Fiore murmured, peeling off DeBlanc’s jacket.

“We shouldn’t,” DeBlanc agreed, lifting off Fiore’s shirt.

His lips found the skin he had just uncovered, and Fiore’s protests became small hisses of pleasure. His blunt fingernails scraped at DeBlanc’s back (he didn’t know when that particular clothing item had been discarded, but he was incredibly grateful it was) and the demon responded with a groan that echoed filthily throughout the cave. DeBlanc was doing things with his mouth that Fiore had never even dreamed of feeling, things that made his skin flare and his muscles quiver.

“Gently, please,” Fiore requested softly when he was laid bare underneath his lover. He suddenly couldn’t meet DeBlanc’s eyes; his cheeks were colored a bright red and his thin chest was rising and falling rapidly. Despite the cold stone, his body was hot all over.

DeBlanc bent his head down until their lips were a centimeter apart, their breaths mingling, their scents melding. “It’s alright, my dear,” he soothed. “I will never hurt you.” He pressed their mouths together like they had been made for one another while he carefully guided Fiore’s legs to the best angle.

And Fiore believed him. He couldn’t explain how he trusted this stranger--but he didn’t feel like a stranger, not anymore--so implicitly and so completely, just as DeBlanc couldn’t explain the way he drowned in Fiore’s eyes and how desperately he wanted to worship the angel he held in his arms.

 

It did hurt, just a little, and Fiore inhaled sharply even as DeBlanc captured the subsequent whimper with a kiss. But their bodies fit as if they were destined to conjoin, all fire in their veins and sweet sweat on their skin. DeBlanc filled Fiore as the ocean overtakes the sand, devouring compassionately, crashing tenderly. His calloused palms moved him expertly and carefully until they were both so unwound that even their initial rhythm collapsed into erratic pulses. A staccato beat, falling carelessly out of time.

There was water pricking at Fiore’s eyes. He closed them, and DeBlanc begged him to open them, to watch their bodies and listen as they spilled over the edge together. Fiore obliged, raising his hand to brush away the tears on the demon’s face. A blinding white light radiated around them, a brilliant, bright, spherical collection of rays. Suddenly everything was so loud, every final grasp multiplied like the birth of a new star. They shared their final moment of pleasure with a resonating gasp, the air around them screaming like a siren, before there was absolute silence.

DeBlanc shuddered and pulled away when he could, but returned immediately with his jacket to cover Fiore’s shivering body. The angel beckoned him forward and kissed him chastely before curling into the demon’s outstretched body and humming contently. DeBlanc watched him with bleary eyes before wrapping his arms around him. His back fit perfectly into his chest despite the glaring height difference, and it simply felt  _ right  _ to be so close.

They dozed together, away from prying eyes and the scorn of their separate armies. They did not notice anything apart from each other, not even the churning  _ thing _ manifesting roughly ten feet away from them, a creation of immense power and disturbing ferocity.

…

If being with Fiore had brought the most  _ right  _ to his long life, waking brought the most  _ wrong  _ he had ever felt. It was a suffocating pressure, one that numbed him and left his lungs clamoring for air. He jerked to a sit, gasping and finding himself surrounded by angels and demons alike, all wearing similar expressions of rage and distaste.

_ No.  _ He swallowed and tried not to panic. He thought he would awake with only Fiore by his side, that he would be able to hold him through the morning and learn every small corner of his body, starting with that irresistible smile. The demon registered vaguely that they had been afforded some decency and been given a blanket (undoubtedly an angel’s work), but the small kindness did not ease the churning in his stomach or rid his throat of the bile lodged in it.

Fiore stirred beside him, and DeBlanc wanted to retch until his insides were shredded. Precious, pure Fiore. His angel didn’t deserve those horrible glares; he would shield him from those poisonous eyes for as long as he could.

 

“Don’t do this to him,” he pleaded to the closest angel, but the abject scorn showed so neatly on her face that he knew it was futile before the sentence escaped his sinful lips.

“Shame on you,” she spat. “Traitors.”

The word was spoken through the circle, a harrowing ring and the most unpleasant alarm clock. Fiore opened his eyes to that word, to the lips curled in loathing. DeBlanc looked on, heart swelling pitifully, as the angel finally registered what was happening and shrank into himself.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” a demon growled. DeBlanc exchanged a glance with his lover before casting his gaze outward wildly. Upon closer inspection, he noticed all of the beings were of the highest levels on both sides. The superiors of the superiors, second only to God and Satan themselves.

“I love him,” DeBlanc snarled, not at all shocked by the confidence in his voice. Though they had only known each other briefly, DeBlanc knew he and Fiore shared a bond stronger than anything he’d ever known, a love deeper than the pits of Hell and truer than the highest point in Heaven.

The closest demon didn’t seem satisfied with nor prepared for his answer. “Disgusting,” he jeered.

“Traitor!”

“ _ Disgusting. _ ”

The barrage came swiftly and mercilessly. The pain was worse than all the fleeting wounds on his corporal form; it cut deeper, it was a hurt that couldn’t be erased with death. Watching Fiore collapse, DeBlanc felt their light eclipsing, and he could only retaliate pitifully as the entourage of leaders took two pairs of handcuffs and bound them.

 

…

A day later, locked in a furiously clean, glowing white cell separate from Fiore’s (he raged against this for hours, earned a few more deaths for his efforts before he sat brooding in the corner), DeBlanc learned of their terrible mistake. Genesis, the higher-ups called it, was the scandalous, repugnant result of their union. And though DeBlanc was repulsed by their creation, it could not alter his devotion to Fiore--a fact that displeased his captors greatly.

“I want to see him,” he repeated for the tenth time that hour.

“No,” they answered for the tenth time that hour.

“What’s going to happen to him? To us? To… to  _ it _ ?” He hadn’t seen Genesis yet, but he knew enough about it to be properly disdainful of the creature (though his conflicting emotions were not without filial fondness).

 

They explained the arrangement. At first, the idea was to abandon Genesis with DeBlanc as its sole caretaker, but as he stressed his adoration for Fiore and his doubts that the angel could be “rehabilitated” as they called it, the parents became the custodians. Eternity guarding Genesis would be a miserable sentence to most, but DeBlanc found himself looking forward to the job. He and Fiore would be away from the war, the violence, the pain, but always together.

The first year was the roughest. DeBlanc and Fiore fought often, barely touched, and their frustration with the horrific hybrid increased daily. Fiore, as an angel, had only ever known a life of good will and pristine behavior, and had taken many of his superior’s insults to heart. Not a week went by without Fiore calling himself a traitor, firing off about the perversion of their relationship and the beast they had borne.

“Tell me you don’t want me anymore, and I’ll go, Fiore, I swear! I will do whatever you want,” DeBlanc finally yelled one day. He slumped against the wall of their single room house (of sorts; it functioned as a place to  _ exist  _ rather than to live) in Heaven and sank down to the floor. His pulse stuttered nervously. He could not look at Fiore, not when he thought he knew the answer to his outburst.

Fiore’s shoes were across the room. They marched forward carefully. They turned and slid across the carpet as the angel descended to sit with his partner. Slowly, he reached out and touched DeBlanc’s cheek, forcing him to meet his haunted eyes. He pressed their foreheads together and breathed his demon in, all the tension suddenly erased from his shoulders as he reveled in the way their bodies relaxed and reacted to one another’s.

“You promised to never hurt me,” he whispered, an echo of a night that felt like an eternity ago.

DeBlanc closed his eyes and swallowed. “I did.” His throat was coated in glass.

“You leaving me would hurt more than anything they ever said to me, DeBlanc.”

“My dear....” DeBlanc started, but couldn’t finish. The words he wanted to speak were so loud in his head, but he couldn’t articulate them, could barely make a sound. So he let Fiore hold him as they listened to the incessant whining of Genesis.

…

 

Five years later, Fiore and DeBlanc decided to close their eyes, just for a little while--DeBlanc had noted for a long time how  _ tired  _ Fiore seemed, even though immortals weren’t supposed to be capable of emotional weariness. They slept in each other’s arms, and Genesis escaped. 

Waking to an empty domicile was a surreal experience, one that brought nauseating bouts of hysteria to both men. Scarcely a look passed between them before they were packing, throwing weapons of all sorts into a large case, along with Fiore’s comics (he couldn’t survive without them here, how was he expected to survive Earth without them?) and an abundance of human money in myriad currencies. They departed surreptitiously in the night, alerting no one. Their disappearance would not be noted instantaneously, not when the angels and demons still warred on that battlefield.

Wherever Genesis went, Fiore and DeBlanc followed.

Sitting in a small Texas diner with a smug preacher, very little had changed, save for the whole of creation being threatened by a little rascal that wouldn’t just get back in his coffee can. DeBlanc still had trouble retelling the story of Genesis’ creation without climbing into his own personal Hell of unbearable sadness, and Fiore still interjected with hateful comments spewed by the barbed wire mouths of all those close-minded fools. They had not lain with each other since their first meeting, nor had they even kissed. DeBlanc felt that tension more on Earth, but did his best to ignore it, for his angel’s sake.

But as Jesse Custer sat there and smirked at them, making DeBlanc trudge into memories that cut like a chainsaw and making Fiore wallow in the self-pity and self-hatred that his lover was desperately attempting to erase, a warm hand snuck over to the demon’s where it lay between them. Seeking reassurance, seeking comfort, seeking strength.

They did not look at each other, but they did not pull away. An unlike anything that had happened since their first night (a night where nothing else existed or mattered in the world that wasn’t one of them), it felt right.

DeBlanc smiled.


End file.
